


Be the Breath of Me

by TehChou



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Breathplay, Horror, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-15
Updated: 2012-02-15
Packaged: 2017-10-31 06:13:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/340835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TehChou/pseuds/TehChou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He hasn't been feeling himself, lately. . . .</p>
            </blockquote>





	Be the Breath of Me

His fingers are dug snug into flesh anchored cruelly into skin and muscle. It spasms beneath his hands, twitching wildly, unnaturally. He feels something hard and then something pulsing and presses down on them, feels the hardness give beneath his weight, feels the pulsing slow and grow erratic. He groans.

There is a shadow in the corner of the room. It watches him, engulfs his peripheral vision, swallowing up anything that comes near. His fingers flex against the shapeless mass beneath them.

" _Do_ you likeit?" The shadow asks him. Its words are odd, emphasized in strange places, speeding up and slowing down. "I **made** it just foryou." He looks up, sharply, startled. The shadow has a mouth and the mouth swallows him and screams.

The scene dissolves before him, blown away like sand.

He wakes up with a gasp, swallowing great gulps of air, grimacing at the force of his breathing. Dean is hovering in the doorway, looking torn. He starts when Sam notices him, like a spooked cat. Sam wants to roll his eyes, but he's feeling less than solid right now and he just waves his brother in. Dean pauses for a long moment, face shuttered, but eventually he makes his way over. Sam tries to talk, chokes, waves him closer and tries, again.

"Water," he mutters, voice a pained croak. Dean nods, brings it to him, then sits across the bed opposite of them.

It takes a moment, but Sam gets his breath back.

"It's alright," he says. "It wasn't a nightmare." He pauses, frowns.

"Well, I mean it was, but it wasn't," he trails off, lamely. Dean shrugs, shoulders stiff.

"O.K. So what was it about, then?"

"I-" he stops, shakes his head, brow furrowed. "I don't really remember."

\-----------  
They're eating a carry-out, something Chinese, chicken or pork; he never can tell the difference. It's ordinary and pleasant, something quiet before they find something else to hunt. Sam get up to toss his carton and slaps Dean's neck on passing. They don't usually touch, only in passing like this, simple and quick.

He's still touching now. Not simple, not quick. He's been standing there for almost a full minute. Dean is frozen, fork (dad never saw the point in teaching them to use chopsticks, though Sam had learned.)hovering half way between his carton and his mouth. Sam takes his hand away quickly like it's been burned; pretends it never happened.

\----------  


**TAKE ITS AIR**

**TAKE ITS AIR AND I WILL SET HIM FREE.**

Dean's stepped out for a while, gone to get beer or burgers or something equally unhealthy and unappitizing. Sam's left alone and he'd showered and came out and there it was, words scrawling bold and blocky across the faded wall paper. It's black as sin. Sam frowns, drags a finger through it. It comes away sticky with tar. It's thick and it stinks of rotten fish. He gags, then goes to wash his hand but the black is eating up his arm, now, swirling against the flesh. He slaps at it with his other hand, tries franically to whipe it off but it just stretches and adheres to that hand, too. He's swearing, frantic, his whole body is slowly being devoured black. He takes a breath to shout.

He blinks and it's gone.

\------------

"I'm going nuts over here, man," he tells Dean, later. Dean grunts, like he wants to agree. Sam bowls over him, not really in the mood. "Something's going on, we must have contacted some bad juju." He turns to Dean and freezes. He's watching Sam, mouth hanging open. Sounds are coming out, words, but his jaw doesn't move.

"We? Who's we? You're the Hell bitch." He laughs, scratchy like he's swallowed sand. His mouth closes with a snap and he turns back to the T.V. Sam looks away, returns to his research. Maybe he'll find a clue somewhere.

\-------------

His phone is ringing. He checks the clock. It's five in the morning. With a groan he rolls over, arm slap down on the table, groping for the phone. He knocks a glass of water off the shelf and it shatters with a crash. He looks to check if Dean woke from it, but he's still laying as he left him, staring unblinkingly at the ceiling. Sam stares blearily at the number on the phone.

**TAKEITSAIRANDYOUCANHAVEHIMBACK**

He turns off the phone and rolls back over.

\-------------

"Sam, Sam!" The voice on the other end of the line is agitated. "You have to do it, it's the only way. It'll leave if you do what it asks you to, the only way I've seen to get rid of it. It's locked in a battle with the thing that's got your brother. You've gotta do it.  
"But for gods sake don't kill him."

\------------

He's got his fingers taped over Dean's nose, panicky. His brother is watching him unblinkingly, mouth open panting shallow breaths that spark against the cold air. Sam smooths the other hand through his hair, watching Dean's expression. The light dusting of freckles on his face shimmer like ground glass and his lashes are long, too long, sweeping against his cheeks, the long black line of them. Sam shudders and forces himself to look away. He doesn't know how he didn't notice it sooner. He should have, before it came to this. With a hoarse noise his hand drags off Dean's and down his face, traces his jaw line and settles beneath his chin. He leans.

It takes a moment of strain. He's heavy but it takes a lot to choke a man. The thing in Dean's skin is watching him as its borrowed face goes red.

Its' eyes are laughing.

Sam groans and feels something inside him shudder and twitch. He hasn't been thinking straight for days, he knows. The thing had got in him, too, had sunk its way into his thoughts and jerked him around. He hisses and pushes down harder.

Dean's hitting him now, eyes wide and bugging, his legs kick at the air, shove into the mattress and he's trying to push himself up, trying to force Sam bodily off of him. Sam grits his teeth and hangs on, fingers digging harsh into his skin.

It isn't until Dean has gotten a good swing in and knocked him to the ground that he comes back to himself. Dean's hunched over on the bed, hacking and coughing and Sam is watching him wide eyed.

\-------------

It's hard to go back to routine after that, hard to pretend everything is normal. He doesn't feel normal, feels like he's still dreaming, like there's something stuck behind his eyes, pressing on his brain. Sam wants and he doesn't think Dean's faring any better. He catches him, sometimes, touching the bruises on his neck, a far away look in his eyes. Sam can't help but stare.

He catches him watching a few times. Sam looks away quickly, puts himself to something useful, but he knows he's been caught. Knows he's caught Dean back. He doesn't think too hard on that thought, wonders if he's still possessed.

Scared he isn't.

But the feeling doesn't subside. He wants to feel the soft skin of Dean's neck under his fingers, again, wants to feel his pulse pounding there. Wants to rub a finger across it, wants to press in until he can't think, anymore. It's becoming a physical need and sometimes, while he's thinking about it, while Dean's rubbing his neck and Sam is _staring_ he has to force his fingers unclenched, grabs one hand with the other and pries it open.

He confronts Dean about it after a few days of this. They've driven far away from that last hotel, far from the curse, but it sticks with them and it's not leaving, so he tells Dean.

"I don't think it's gonna go away," he says, staring resolutely at the screen, though he can feel Dean's stare boring holes in his back.

"Sam," Dean's voice is low, barely above a whisper. A fine tremor runs through his body and he looks at him. Dean's eyes are too bright in the faded light. Sam wonders if it's eagerness. Dean nods, slowly.

"Do it," and his voice is still hoarse from before. From the last time he'd wrapped his hands around that well formed neck and squeezed. Sam's shaking, fine tremors that run up and down his arms. Dean lays back on the bed, head resting on a pile of pillows and closes eyes. Sam sits on his legs, the bed shifting with the weight, Dean's face is smooth and serene. It's too similar to before and Sam makes a small noise, distressed. It forces Dean to open his eyes and Sam relaxes. He can do this, he's ready. His owns hands fill his vision, stroke lightly against his brother's neck. He's soft and his pulse is strong, hammering blood through his veins. Dean swallows and his Adam's apple bobs against his hand, brushing against the crook between his thumb and forefinger.

"Are you sure this is OK," Sam asks, fingers fluttering nervously against his pulse point.

"Just get it over with," Dean hisses back. He's trying for gruff, Sam can tell, but it comes out almost like a plea.

On impulse, Sam leans in and kisses him, quick and sweet. Dean's forehead is sticky and salty with a thin sheen of sweat, and Sam wonders if he'll be smacked. He draws back and Dean is looking at him impassively. The sight of him with his own hand wrapped, however lightly, around his neck, hovering like a promise, is filling him up with something he doesn't understand. Dean's breath is coming in short little pants out his nose.

Dean's hitting him again. Sam swears when he connects one fist solidly against his

He looks up and it isn't Dean. He looks like Dean, has Dean's green eyes, his freckles, the paleness of his skin, but the green is shot through with blue, his cheekbones are thick and low and he has no tan line from driving with his arm out the window all day.

The guy has his phone out. Sam decides it's probably best he quits gawking and snatches up his shit as fast as he can (he lives Spartan, everything is quick and easy to pack) and beats it.

Afterward, on a whim, he scrolls through his phone, looks at the calls. He hasn't gotten any. Remembers he threw his old phone away, cracked it in half against the pavement and left it in shards in a parking lot he'd probably never see, again. Bobby doesn't have his new number. He snaps his phone shut and drives.

\----------

"It's fucked up," he tells him, later. "I'm dreaming about choking you. Dunno what that says about me. Something about my latent resentment about all this." He sighs.

"But you never cared about that psychiatry get-in-your-head-crap. Sorry." He cards a hand through his hair, is silent for a long moment.

"I don't resent you," he says, but he's lying.

He sits in front of the little makeshift cross in the woods and wonders when the hell he's going to get over this.


End file.
